


The Sum of Memories

by Apostat3



Series: Non-Fiction Reflections [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Philosophy, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 03:43:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18908851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apostat3/pseuds/Apostat3
Summary: One of my non-fiction, reflective pieces, considering the value of memories and experiences.





	The Sum of Memories

_ “The past beats inside me like a second heart.” _

 

__ \- John Banville, ‘The Sea’ _ _

 

 

Everyone is the sum of their experiences.

 

A true enough statement; sure, no one is ever born this way or that. It is only what someone does or says, or indeed what someone does or says to them, that makes them who and what they are. Sometimes this is good, a child with caring parents and a good upbringing is likely to be a person in keeping with those standards. Sometimes it is bad, someone who perhaps did not have a positive upbringing, or parents that were impartial to their mere existence. They too are likely to become people shaped by these feelings and experiences. Or perhaps sometimes it is neither of these things, and someone is this way or another simply because they find the idea enticing. It does not even have to be experiences as a child, many people are changed, molded by events occurring far later in life. But what good are experiences if you cannot remember them? Perhaps everyone is the sum of their memories?

 

I have thus far led a good life. I have never known true want, nor neglect. I have not suffered great loss or sadness, nor injury or condition that proved particularly debilitating. As such I reflect these circumstances as a person, being neither this nor that, simply an average person; and I must credit that to my experiences and my memories, the little things that stick with me. Pictures, voices, faces in my head. Things familiar, as I see them everyday, or things long since gone, now only the memories I have left of them to me. It is often these such things that bring me happiness and comfort in myself. Some people are good at remembering things one way, some another, but I have always found I could remember freeze frames. As though a camera in my head took a photo of a moment before it vanished forever, never to come around the same again. It is in these pictures that I find my fondest memories. Of course, I can remember things I see everyday, just as most people can. I can instantly summon to mind an image of my mum, for example, spin her in head and look from any and all angles as I see them so often. But there are also the strange little things, things I would normally never dream of remembering so vividly and yet, they are there.

 

When I was three years old, my great grandmother died. Now, I know what you're likely thinking: “Oh, joyous day. Another story about someone's dead granny”. While yes, it is true I use her as an example, the purpose is not to make you cry or laugh with stories of how close I was to her, but instead to give an impression of what I refer to in the previous paragraphs. We visited my grandmother often, and she was dear to us, but I was affected little by her passing as I was only three, scarcely aware of what death even was. And yet, while I can remember little to nothing of when I was three or prior - or even after - I can recall perfect and detailed images of her home. Only sections, and only from a single angle, just as all photos taken on cameras are. Despite having never seen her house in 13 years, I can remember the layout of the sections we visited, their colours. The gray floral wallpaper. The thin hallway running the length of the house, with walls that seemed so close in they might crush you, divided in half by a staircase on the right side, but with a roof so high it was as though you had walked into a chapel. The high oak archway that led into the living room, with cream carpet stretching from corner to corner and teal blue couches sitting atop. The converted record player turned into a dresser with a TV placed on its glass surface. Windows that spanned one whole wall, bombarding the room with beautiful sunlight during the spring and summer. The same flower-adorned wallpaper decorating this room, too. Then another right, through a smaller arch into the kitchen. The grey colour scheme of the place cast a stark contrast to the view out of the window, lush greens spreading across a huge field. Immediately to the left, a narrow wooden table where myself and my brother would be fed. Tall chairs in which my feet couldn't touch the ground. 

I take great joy out of these memories. I can think of no better thing to remember than snapshots of past happiness, lost comfort. One would think that reflecting on that which is past and never to come again would be sad, but instead I take solace from the fact that I hold onto these snippets. These photographs. These memories

 

Now, two years after having initially written this piece, 15 years after having last seen my Grandmother’s house, I find that I do not remember the things I detailed anymore. I cannot remember the house, nor much of how it looked and certainly not anything to the level of detail I did two years ago. Following on from this, I have changed as a person, too. I find my solace in other places, draw my comfort from new sources; I, you could say, have changed alongside my memories. This is why being the sum of my experiences alone would not be comprehensive, for I do not factor those experiences I cannot remember into my conscious thought and decision making any longer. Certainly they are still important, but do they define me as a person? Of course not. I am defined by what I do, and what I remember. That which I did and is gone and forgotten is now little more than nothing at all. However, it is undeniable that the memories I once had of my grandmother effect me now, as they affect me through reading this piece again. Through my memory of memories.

 

Everyone is the sum of their memories. Indeed, that sounds right to me.


End file.
